The Renegade Angel
by A. Small
Summary: Something is brewing in the quiet town of Miracle Lake. An ancient power simmers through the air, tainted with sadness and despair. Meanwhile, Dean dreams. AU; Dean/Castiel; Rating May Change.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

_Thanks to bethanyyerinn for her wonderful beta work. Any remaining mistakes are mine. _

**Fandom:** Supernatural

**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/OC

**Genre:** Alternate Universe, Romance, Supernatural

**Characters: **Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Pamela Barnes and, uh...Lilith? Sort of?

**Rating:** PG-13 for this chapter

**Warnings:** None for this chapter

* * *

**T**he **_R_**enegade **_A_**ngel

**Chapter I**

* * *

_This story begins on a Thursday, somewhere in the Southern US, sometime during the 19th century._

_For the meticulous readers who will demand more specifics, newspapers found in dusty archives will tell that this story began, precisely, on Thursday, August 4th, 1866, in a little town called Miracle Lake. Miracle Lake, as the name might imply, was settled at the edge of a lake, so the town was mostly inhabited by fishermen, unassuming and easy people. It was also one of the only places in New-Orleans that had somehow managed to stay untouched by the Civil War. Life in Miracle Lake was quiet and unsurprising._

_Ironically, the first seeds of this legend were planted in a garden. The garden of a manor where lived a haughty Lady named Marianna Hillsmith, whose wealth was as enormous as it was mysterious. Rumor had it that it had been earned by shady business during the War. Nobody had much detail about it, however, and if the blacksmith farrier's wife's cousin had heard that Marianna's husband had died in suspect circumstances, nobody paid it much attention. After all, in a little town like Miracle Lake, tale tales weren't rare. They made people snicker quietly, but found themselves quickly buried under the boots of the Believers who rushed to Church on Sunday morning. _

_This night of Thursday, August 4th, 1866, there was a terrible thunderstorm. The sky, heavy and purplish blue, was spitting lightning without interruption. The atmosphere was buzzing with electricity. In her bedroom, Marianna Hillsmith awoke with a start, heart beating madly and hair plastered on her sweaty forehead. Her delicate fingers were clutching the soft linen of the sheets with such strength her knuckles had turned white. Thunder echoed once more, a grumbling sound that seemed to come from the bottom of the Earth rather than from the Skies. Fear burnt the back of her throat like bile. She opened her mouth and yelled Lola's name._

_Mere seconds later, the door opened and Lola entered, brandishing a lit candle like she would have a weapon. Her black skin glistened with perspiration and her eyes seemed wide and shiny in the electric light of the lightning. _

_"Miss," she whispered in a frantic tone, "Miss, tell me, what can I do?" _

_"The curtains, draw the curtains and come here," Marianna rasped. Lola shuffled to the window and drew the heavy drapes. Even then, the lightning seemed to go through the thick material, illuminating the bedroom with a white, electric blaze._

_"This ain't no natural storm, Miss," Lola said, her dark eyes wide with terror. Marianna shook her head and grabbed Marianna's wrist, pulling her close._

_"No, Lola," she murmured, "it's not natural. Let me… let me hold you. I will protect you, I promise." _

_Lola slowly put the candlestick on the bedside table and sat on the bed. The mattress let out a creak as she curled next to Marianna, who simply took her hand, nuzzling into the nape of her neck. Both women flinched when a thunder clap echoed in the house with a low, menacing rumble. A flash of white light invaded the room, so bright Marianna felt her eyes fill with tears. In her arms, Lola let out a sob._

_"Close your eyes," she whispered. "Close your eyes, I'm here." _

* * *

_The morning after, Lola found the statue in the garden, nestled among a cluster of rose bushes. The flowers were gorgeous, white and delicate. _

_Lola approached cautiously and brushed a rose with a trembling fingertip. She looked up at the statue and fell on her knees, praying to god and all the angels, thanking them for their gift._

_She didn't see the silent despair in the sculpted eyes. _

* * *

Dean Winchester knew a thing or two about motels. In his twenty-six years of existence, he had without any doubt seen more crappy rooms than the average Joe. So went the life of a hunter: thousands of miles on bumpy roads, the smell of gasoline and deep-fried chicken, and an endless string of shady motel rooms. He dealt with it, though. He dealt with sticky sheets and cold showers the same way he dealt with every other shitty thing that had happened to him in his life: with good humor, beer, and nameless women picked in bars. Dean Winchester wasn't unhappy. He didn't know anything else and, unlike Sam, didn't allow himself to think about how different his life would be had his father not been a hunter. It was easier to feel contented with what he had if he didn't spend his time thinking about what he was missing.

So, yeah, Dean Winchester knew a thing or two about motels, namely the fact that, sometimes, there were good surprises.

"Dude, there's a _fruit basket_."

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't answer. Sam seemed awed, as if a fruit basket was the ultimate achievement of his life. He had to admit that, for once, the room they were in was quite pleasant, and he didn't want to ruin his brother's rare good mood. He threw himself on the bed, barely repressing a delighted moan. After fifteen hours of driving, his back ached like crazy and he wanted nothing more than to take a nap.

No such luck. He heard Sam open his laptop and sighed. Back to business, then.

Sam hummed and started typing. A comfortable silence fell on the room, barely disturbed by the distant purring of a car.

"So, Bobby told me it looked like a vengeful spirit," he said without opening his eyes.

"Well… I don't know about that, Dean, but two weeks ago, a woman named Pamela Barnes got… attacked. Her eyes got burnt out. She refused to talk to the police, claiming that she didn't see who –or what –did it."

Dean opened his eyes and rubbed them with his palms.

"burnt out?"

"Yeah, like… _literally_ burnt out. There was nothing left. The police are at a loss to explain what happened."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I bet they are." He sat on the bed and cracked his knuckles. "That's weird, though. I've never seen a ghost burn out someone's eyes."

"According to this article, she was released from the hospital four days ago. We should go talk to her."

"You think she's still here?"

"I don't know. I don't even know what she does for a living." He scrolled down the page, shook his head, and started typing again. Dean watched him blink slowly, mouth falling open. "You've got to be kidding me…"

"What?" Dean asked.

"Pamela Barnes is a… psychic," Sam said, voice tinged with disbelief.

Dean groaned and fought the urge to get back on the bed and never, _never_ get up again.

"Oh, come _on_. A psychic, really? What does that even _mean_?"

Sam shrugged. "Don't know, man. She even has a website and everything. Apparently, she can… communicate with spirits."

Dean put on his jacket. "So what, you're telling me she's some sort of ghost whisperer? That's bullshit."

"Hey, don't look at me like that, I'm just reading her presentation. But I've got her address."

"Well, let's go, then. I can't wait to see this _psychic_ chick in action."

Sam laughed and shook his head. Despite himself, Dean felt his lips curl up in a smile. Sam didn't laugh very much lately. Not since… Dad's death, really. One of the many things they emphatically _didn't talk about_, like Sam's years in Stanford, like his ex-girlfriend Jess, like his broken dream of an 'Apple Pie Life'. Dean sighed and clutched the keys of the Impala in his hand.

It was going to be a long case, he was sure of it.

* * *

Pamela Barnes opened the door before Sam could even knock. He arched a brow in Dean's direction, but Dean just shrugged. He scrutinized the woman, surprised to find her in casual clothes –not the dark outfit and mysterious appearance he had envisioned. She was wearing a pair of opaque sunglasses.

"Ms. Barnes?" Sam asked, slipping into professional mode in a blink.

"In the flesh," the woman said with a friendly smile.

"Agent Tyler and Agent Perry, FBI," Dean said. He started reaching into his pocket for his badge, but Sam nudged him with his elbow and mouthed "blind" with a meaningful glance. Feeling stupid, he cleared his throat and went on. "We're here to take your statement as to what happened to you."

"Of course, come in." She stepped aside.

"Thank you, Ms. Barnes," Sam said when the door closed behind them. Pamela gestured for them to follow her, moving around with astonishing ease, barely guiding herself with her white stick. Her house was neat and sparsely decorated. The living room's walls were painted in a soft yellow. A huge brown cat was glaring at them from the sofa and Dean winced. Of course she would have a vicious cat. It was just their luck.

"Please, call me Pamela." She sat on an armchair without hesitation. After a beat, Dean and Sam sat on the sofa. Dean noticed that Sam tried to put as much distance as possible between the cat and him.

"Oh, sweetie, don't worry about Lilith. She's a real bitch, but I have a feeling that she likes you."

Dean heard his brother mutter something like "_wonderful_" and tried to control his impulse to laugh at his brother's misfortune.

"Okay," Pamela said in a no-nonsense tone. "First things first, boys. I have something to tell you. Something very important."

Dean leaned towards her, curiosity piqued.

"Go on."

"You don't bullshit a psychic," Pamela said bluntly.

Dean blinked and glanced at his brother, who seemed to have frozen on the spot.

"I… excuse me?"

"I know you're not Feds. I don't like being lied to, so either you tell me who you _really_ are, or you clear off. And don't try and feed me another lie, I'll know."

_Well, that's awkward_, Dean thought in the stunned silence that followed. He rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous gesture and met Sam's shocked gaze with his own. They didn't exactly have a line of action for these kinds of situations.

"We –ah. We're…" Sam stuttered.

"We're hunters."

Ignoring Sam's hiss of "_Dean"_, he watched Pamela's face, looking for a trace of surprise. When it didn't come, he wondered if she'd known all along. That thought didn't do anything to put him at ease. Apparently, psychics _were_ a thing. Who knew?

"Hunters, uh? Nice to meet you…" She paused questioningly, waiting for a name to call them.

"I'm Dean. This is my brother Sam."

Pamela beamed at them and leaned against the armchair.

"What can I do for you?"

"We'd like, uh, the… truth about what happened to you."

If Dean hadn't been trained to _notice_ things, he wouldn't have seen the sudden tension in Pamela's stance. As it were, he saw her jaw clench and her upper lip twitch. She pressed her palms together –probably in an effort to prevent her hands from shaking. When she talked, her voice was even, carefully so.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Anything that could help us find whatever did this to you."

There was a pregnant pause. Pamela sighed.

"It was nobody's fault but mine."

"_What?_" Dean and Sam asked at the same time. Sam had stopped glaring back at the cat to give Pamela his full attention.

"I've always known there was something in this town. I moved here ten years ago and I felt it the very first day. But it was hazy, diluted. I couldn't place it, but I knew it increased my psychic powers. I'm good, but not _that _good. But I think it really began one year ago. Something started to flow in the air, the power became thicker. An _ancient_ power I didn't recognize. It reached a peak three weeks ago, so I decided to summon whatever it was."

"You _what?_" Dean choked. Pamela smiled sadly.

"You have to understand me. Power… power is like an addiction. As hunters, you probably know that. People who have access to this power always want more. I'm no exception."

Dean closed his eyes and thought about the witch they'd shot two weeks before. She'd barely been legal, in a thin line between childhood and adulthood. She'd killed seven people to try and conjure a demon that was supposed to give her immortality. He shuddered.

"Yeah, we know that. So, what was it? A ghost?"

Pamela shook her head. "It wasn't a spirit. I felt it. It was… powerful. Really powerful. It talked to me."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

"What did it say?" Sam asked.

"I asked its name. It said… it said something like "Castiel". And then… I asked it to show me its face. I should," her voice broke, "I should have listened. It tried to warn me against it but –I don't know, I didn't listen. I thought I could handle it. Next thing I know, I'm in a hospital bed, and the doctors tell me my eyes are gone." She took off her glasses. Dean cringed at the sight of two white eyes staring at him, unseeing.

"I thought… I thought they got burnt out?" he asked.

"They're artificial." She shrugged and smiled feebly. "That's good for business, though. People like them. Make the whole experience more… _real_."

* * *

"I don't like it," Sam said. It was the first words he'd uttered since they'd come back to the motel. Dean was staring at the sunset through the window. The lake seemed lit up from the inside, glowing with the last rays of light. It was peaceful, he thought idly. He felt more tired than he had in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, he'd manage a full night's sleep.

"What?"

"This case. It's… weird."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, because the other cases are so _normal_. We're hunters, Sam. Dealing with weird stuff is basically our job."

Sam sighed. "No, but Dean, have you ever heard of something like that?"

Dean frowned and made his way to the table. He sat heavily and looked up at his brother.

"Nah, but that doesn't mean anything. It's probably just a ghost, anyway."

"You heard Pamela. It's not a spirit. It doesn't look like a demon either. There's nothing in Dad's journal. I just don't like it."

Starting to feel irritated, Dean glared at Sam. "What do you suggest we do? We can't just _leave_. Who knows what kind of evil son of a bitch it is? It _burnt _her _eyes_, Sam."

"Maybe we need help!"

Dean slammed his fist on the table.

"_Damn it_, Sammy. Who could we possibly ask? _Dad_? Oh, no, I know, let's ask Bobby, he and his wheelchair would be happy to help us out!" he snarled. He saw Sam's face turn white as a sheet, but couldn't find it in himself to regret his words. Weeks of repressed frustration were slamming on him in full force, bitter with words left unsaid.

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he spoke, his voice was harsh. "We don't have to handle all this by ourselves, that's all I'm saying."

"Yes, Sam, we _do_. It's our job. It's our life."

"You know I don't _want_ this life, Dean. You know what I abandoned by coming with you to finish off the demon that killed Dad."

"Well, the demon's dead, now, congratulations. So, you wanna go back to your precious little life? Be my guest! I can hunt on my own. It wouldn't be the first time."

"No, you can't."

"And why's that?"

"Because Dad's dead!" Sam yelled, "Dad died because he didn't trust anybody but himself, and look where it got him? You're exactly like him, Dean! You think you're better on your own, you don't trust me, you order me around like I'm nothing but your fucking _soldier_. I'm tired of feeling like a chess piece waiting to be played. Dad's dead. He's _dead, _Dean. I don't need you to become him."

Dean closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten, forcing his adrenaline-fueled body to calm down. The urge to punch Sam was almost overwhelming.

"Dean, I-"

Dean raised his hand in warning and Sam fell silent.

"I'm going to take my car and go to the bar. Don't follow me. Don't wait for me."

"Dean-"

"I mean it, Sam," he snapped. Sam closed his mouth and nodded slowly, shoulders hunched sheepishly, but eyes bright with anger. An expression he had seen thousand times on his brother's face, but never directed at him. The realization hit him on full force, and he did what he did best when facing a situation that threatened to turn too emotional for him to handle.

He fled.

Dean slammed the door behind him, feeling like a frustrated teenager. He stomped through the corridor and into the silent hall.

In the driver's seat of the Impala, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe. In, and out. In, and out. When he finally felt able to drive, he turned on the ignition and relished in the soft purring of the engine. As the first notes of Kashmir simmered through the air, he began humming softly along with the song.

He drove aimlessly for half an hour. Night had fallen and the town was quiet. It was difficult to imagine that danger lurked around the streets, but Dean knew better. He'd been seven years old when his father had sat next to him and told him that the monsters in the stories were real. He was twenty-six now, and nothing had changed.

At the moment, though, he found himself relaxing slightly, soothed by the peaceful atmosphere.

He parked his car and got out, strangely reassured by the feeling of a cool breeze on his skin. The lake seemed endless. The full moon was shining high in the sky, and the silence was barely troubled by the occasional song of a night bird.

"Sam's right, Dad," he whispered. "And I don't want to be like you. Not anymore. I owe him that much."

Hands fisted in his pockets, he started walking along the border of the lake. He felt his anger disappear, as if drained by the silence.

When he came back to the motel, Sam was already fast asleep, his head nestled on the pillow. Dean padded into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His reflection in the mirror showed him exactly what he was feeling; eyes ringed with fatigue, mouth set in a thin, worried line. He sighed and shrugged off his jacket, too tired to do anything other than brush his teeth. He discarded his clothes on the floor and went back in the room. As he slipped between the cool sheets, he had this strange feeling that someone was watching him, sending a cold shiver along his spine. When he turned on the light, Sam was still snoring softly and the room was exactly the same. He shrugged it off as a trick played by exhaustion and went to sleep.

* * *

_He was standing alone on the edge of the lake, eyes wide open. He had no idea how he'd got here. He had no idea _why_ he was here at all. _

I'm dreaming, _he thought lazily_, But this is a nice dream.

_A fish broke the surface, the moonlight reflecting on its silvery scales like a thousand mirrors. _

_And suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore. There was someone behind him, and it wasn't Sam. A part of him wanted to turn around and confront whoever it was, but he simply looked up to watch the stars. _

_"Who are you?" he asked softly. _

_"Help me," was the answer. The voice was gravelly and strained, definitely male._

_A black feather floated through the air, stopping right in front of his face. He tried to brush it with his fingertip, but found he couldn't approach it. _

_"The Grace is fleeing," said the man. "Your people are going to suffer. The psychic was only the first of a long list." _

_"Are you threatening me?" _

_"I am warning you. The Grace is fleeing," he repeated. After a pause, he added, "Something is wrong in Heaven. The Seal that maintains my Grace is growing weaker. My exile has turned into a death sentence. Something is wrong in Heaven. You have to help me, Dean Winchester." _

_A menacing creak echoed through the air. A soft gasp, a rustle of feathers and Dean was left alone on the edge of the lake. _

Dean awoke with a start, surprised to find himself lying in the motel bed. The first rays of dawn were bathing the room in a pale glow.

"Weird," he muttered, before closing his eyes and slipping back into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, he found a black feather clutched in his hand. He frowned at it for a long time, a weird feeling uncoiling in his stomach like a snake. He slipped it in his pocket, deciding he needed to get to the bottom of it.

* * *

After some mumbled and rather mortifying apologies, they'd decided never to mention the argument again. They'd celebrated their decision with a cheeseburger and a trip to the local library (Sam's unfortunate and nerdy idea of fun).

"Dean, listen to this. I think I found something."

Dean clasped his book closed with a relieved sigh. A puff of dust made him sneeze. Sam snorted with laughter.

"I'm listening," Dean snapped, glaring at the book like it had personally offended him.

"It's an article from the Daily Miracle." Dean rolled his eyes at the name, but Sam didn't pay him any attention. "It talks about a huge thunderstorm that happened here in 1866."

"… And?"

"And… there's a paragraph talking about Marianna Hillsmith. She was the owner of the Hillsmith Manor, you know, the huge house we saw when we drove into the town. It says here that the day after the storm, her maid found a statue in the garden. A statue that wasn't here before."

Dean frowned. "A statue? A statue of what?"

Sam shrugged. "The article doesn't mention it. It's time to pay this statue a visit, don't you think?"

* * *

The Hillsmith Manor –which now belonged to one Maggie Collins –had known better days. The garden was a mess of weeds and wild flowers, the walls of the façade were cracked. The whole place had a distressing atmosphere that Dean always associated with haunted houses, and an inherent sadness lurked in the dark corners. They crossed the alley silently, glancing around in the hope of seeing the infamous statue.

Dean knocked on the door. A minute went by, then two. Sam was squirming on the spot, visibly unnerved by the glum setting. "Dude, stop it, you look like you need to pee."

Sam scowled at him. "Shut up, jerk."

"Make me, bitch," Dean murmured back.

Sam ignored Dean's slight. "I don't think there's anyone here."

At the same instant, the door cracked open.

"Yeah?" asked a woman's voice.

"Maggie Collins?" Sam asked in an uncertain tone.

A second of silence, and then, "I don't need anything. And I have a dog. A big, angry dog. Thank you." She slammed the door to their face.

"Charming," Sam grumbled before raising his hand and knocking again. This time, the door opened wide and a disheveled-looking woman appeared. She had curly red hair, freckles, and looked less than impressed by their insistence.

"_What?_" she barked with a frown that matched Sam's most epic bitch-face.

"Miss Collins, we're not salesmen," Sam began, "we're journalists. I'm Sam Tyler and this is Dean Perry. We're writing an article about folklore and old legends, and we'd like to talk to you about Marianna Hillsmith. "

"Press cards," the woman said flatly.

Sam fumbled in his pocket and Dean resisted the urge to snicker at the sight of his brother –a grown-up hunter –being so flustered. Maggie Collins glared at him and his smirk slipped from his face. He promptly showed her his fake press card. Damn if this chick didn't look dangerous.

She studied their cards for so long Dean started to worry she would call them into question. But after a tense moment, her expression softened minutely and she motioned for them to come in.

"I'm sorry. I really hate it when people disturb me when I'm painting."

"You're an artist?"

The woman nodded and closed the door behind them.

"Yeah, I am," she sighed, wiping her hands on her jeans before digging into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Nah," Dean said. He looked around, curious to see if the inside of the house fared better than the outside. It did. Though the paint on the walls was cracked, the room they were in seemed more lively than the abandoned garden. The only pieces of furniture were a leather sofa and a bookcase in a corner. Maggie caught his gaze and shrugged a little self-consciously.

"It's not much," she said. "I wasn't supposed to stay here for so long. This manor has been in my family since its construction. I inherited it from my grandfather. My parents want me to sell it." She blew a cloud of grey smoke and made a vague motion with her other hand in the general direction of the room. "A huge house like this, it's expensive to maintain. I don't want them to sell it. I like it here. I've never been this inspired in my entire life." A flash of sadness passed through her hazel eyes and she cleared her throat. "But you're not here to listen to me rant about my family. How can I help you?"

"Was Marianna Hillsmith a member of your family?" Sam asked, staring at Maggie like she was the highlight of his day. Dean shook his head and smirked.

"Yeah, she was the second owner of this house. Something like my great-great-aunt, I don't know. You're here for the statue, aren't you?"

Dean blinked. "Yeah, how do you know that?"

Maggie laughed. "It's the only thing worth seeing here," she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "I love it. I don't believe the whole story with the thunderstorm and the Grace of God, though. In my opinion, this Marianna was a nutcase, but it's a beautiful work of art. Wanna see it?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a smile. "We'd like that."

Maggie crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. "Follow me."

They followed on her heels and Dean frowned when they got out of the house. The change in the atmosphere was obvious. The deeper they went into the garden, the colder he felt. A weeping willow's branches slowly moved at the pace of a soft summer breeze. In a pond, the stagnant water filled his nose with a smell of rotten mud. A shudder went through his spine, like a warning. He felt like he was stepping into unknown, dangerous territory. By his side, Sam hastened his pace to catch up with Maggie, hand tucked under his jacket, which was where he kept his gun hidden.

"People usually don't like to come here," Maggie said in hushed tones. "This place gives them the creeps. I find it… fascinating."

"Yeah," Dean answered, voice tight, "That's one way to say it."

"When I was a little girl, I always felt like there was someone here who wanted to talk to me. Like a- presence." She shook her head. "Forget it. That's stupid. I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Oh, believe me, it's far from stupid," Dean muttered.

"Here we are," Maggie whispered in a reverent tone. They stepped onto a clearing.

The first thing Dean saw was a rose. A milky, delicate flower, with petals so thin they were almost translucent. He looked up and muffled a stunned gasp.

A cloak of roses was covering every inch of the clearing, down to a path just large enough to allow the passage of one person. The green stems and the white flowers were entangled in thorny chaos. At the center of the clearing, perched on a pedestal, was…

"Is that an _Angel_?"

"Yes," Maggie answered, a dreamy smile on her face.

"Dude," Sam said, "that's _beautiful_."

Any other time, Dean would have mocked his brother for being such a girl but, for once, he found himself agreeing with him. The sight was breathtaking.

"Wanna get a better look?"

He nodded wordlessly. The statue was hidden in the shadows, and he could only see the outline of two majestic unfolded wings. He stepped forward, muscles tense.

"Oh, _shit_," Dean breathed once he got close enough to see every single detail of the statue. The body –the male body –was dressed in what looked like some kind of gladiator armor, incredibly precise, carved with symbols he'd never seen before. The angel's hands were clenched around the hilt of a short sword. It was on bended knee, head bowed in a submissive posture. However, its expression and the menacing position of its wings belied the passive stance. Dean's stare skimmed from the chiseled jaw to the slightly open mouth, the tiny drops on its forehead and its cheeks –tears, sweat, maybe both; and then, finally, to the angel's eyes. Not once in his life had Dean seen such an intense gaze. It didn't matter that it belonged to an effigy; he could see in these sculpted eyes a rage and a desperation that found no match in human emotions. He wondered idly what color they would be, had they not been engraved in gray stone. The whole scene exuded an aura of raw power entwined with anguish, like seeing a soldier fall on the battlefield. Dean felt an alien wetness on his cheek and raised a trembling hand to touch it.

"What the _hell?" _he muttered in disbelief when his fingers came back wet with tears. He took a step backwards, thankful that Sam couldn't see him, and quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

"Sammy, you should come and see this," he said, surprised by the roughness of his own voice.

He heard the telltale rustle of Sam walking through the bushes, a muttered curse, and then his brother was by his side.

"Holy shit."

Dean smiled and turned to his brother.

"Interesting choice of words, Sam."

Sam ignored him and peered at the angel's face. His expression was a mix of frightened and wary.

"Dean," he murmured, too low for Maggie to hear, "Dean, I'm not imagining things, am I? There's something wrong with this statue."

In Dean's mind, a strange, gravelly voice sighed "_The Grace is fleeing_," like a faraway echo of reality.

"Yeah," he said, "I think so, too. Now we just have to find out what."

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

_Again, thanks to bethanyyerinn for her beta work. Any remaining mistakes are mine._

**Fandom:** Supernatural

**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/OC

**Genre:** Alternate Universe, Romance, Supernatural

**Rating:** PG-13 for this chapter

**Warnings:** None for this chapter

* * *

**T**he **_R_**enegade **_A_**ngel

**Chapter II**

* * *

This time, the lake wasn't calm. Waves were crashing down at Dean's feet. When he looked up, there were no stars, just a bright waning crescent moon. It was almost red, inflaming the clouds with bloody reflections. He figured the dreamscape didn't care about lunar cycles. It just created, picking into his mind and his memories to build a perfect setting.

A scent of salt floated in the air, scratching his throat when he took a deep breath. "Are you here?" he asked.

For a moment, he thought no one would answer. But then, there was a soft rustle–one he recognized immediately–and a familiar voice spoke.

"Yes."

He closed his eyes, trying to find within himself the peace of his first dream. He failed. This time was different. It wasn't an ephemeral imprint in his sleep. It had a purpose.

"Who are you?"

"Castiel."

The name echoed in his mind, awaking memories from the real world.

"If I look at you, am I going to go blind?"

The answer was a soft-spoken "No."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"You don't."

He turned around. When his gaze met another one, something shifted deep down inside him.

"It's you," he said softly, vaguely wondering why, among the turmoil of emotions buzzing under his skin like annoying insects, he didn't find surprise.

Two piercing oceans, two pools of cold wisdom bore right into him, as if searching into the mess of his soul for something worth saving. Dean shuddered.

"Your eyes are blue," he said inanely.

The man tilted his head to the side and smiled, a gentle quirk of his lips. It seemed alien, as if his face hadn't been created for such an expression, but tried to adjust nonetheless. The eyes weren't cold anymore; they'd dropped the act, warming at his words.

"Yes, they are. Is that a bother?"

Dean shook his head.

"No, it's –I just wondered. What. Uh, if they'd be. Blue, I mean," he stuttered, marveling at his ability to make an ass of himself even in his own dreams. He closed his eyes for a second, mortified.

"Who are you?" he finally asked.

The man seemed confused.

"I told you, I'm Cast-"

"No," Dean cut him off, "No, I mean… dude, no offense but _what_ are you?"

The man's lips formed a little "o" of understanding. For some reason, Dean found the sight slightly unnerving.

"I'm an Angel of the Lord," Castiel said.

Dean blinked. He huffed a jerky laugh and rubbed at the nape of his neck.

"I guess I should've seen that one coming," he said, smiling ruefully.

Castiel didn't answer. His gaze never wavered, focused solely on Dean with an intensity bordering on uncomfortable. He was wearing his armor, Dean noticed, but his wings were nowhere to be seen. A cool wind was blowing, and he eyed the angel's naked arms, wondering if he was cold.

The dream shifted suddenly; in a blink, the lake disappeared, giving way to a sunny park. A second later, it shifted again and they were on a beach, their feet digging in white sand.

"What-"Dean began, his hand automatically reaching for his pocket before he remembered he wasn't armed. Panic swelled in his chest. Far away, a loud rumble of thunder echoed. At their feet, the sand became mud. The crashing noise of the waves faded, replaced by a heavy silence.

"_How_-"Dean began again, but was cut off by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find Castiel watching him intently, a concerned expression on his face.

"Try to calm down. This is your dream, Dean. You're in control."

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed around the dryness of his throat. He forced himself to take a deep breath, feeling the panic slowly recede, replaced by an acute awareness of the hand still on his shoulder. _There's an Angel touching me, _he thought somewhat hysterically.

"I – I want to get back to the lake," he rasped without opening his eyes.

"So be it," Castiel answered. This time, Dean felt the sliding of the atmosphere around them. It prickled on his skin like an electrical current, and he suddenly felt dizzy, exhilarated. He waited a moment before allowing himself to open his eyes, breathing out slowly in relief when he found that they were standing in front of a familiar landscape. He wondered for the first time why this place always filled him with calm, like nothing could ever happen to him.

"Are you okay?" The concerned voice shattered his thoughts. He looked up to see Castiel, unfazed as ever, his blue eyes narrowed in contemplation. Dean nodded curtly, and saw some of the tension he hadn't even noticed before leave Castiel's body.

"I forgot how dreamwalking can be overwhelming to human minds. Forgive me, Dean."

Dean shrugged, trying to quell the irrational stab of jealousy he felt at the idea of Castiel visiting someone else's dreams.

"You do that often?" he asked, cringing inwardly when the words left his mouth of their own volition. It sounded like a bad pick-up line. Well, an angel pick-up line. Castiel appeared vaguely amused by the question, which only comforted Dean in his certainty that the Angel could somehow read his thoughts. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"I believe the last time I dreamwalked was in what you now call the Middle Age, with a French young woman by the name of Jeanne.

"Dude," Dean choked, "how _old_ are you?"

He wanted to take his question back the moment he saw Castiel's face go from amused to anguished in the space of a second.

"I am-" began Castiel, "I am older than you can comprehend."

Dean decided to let it slide, for now. He sat down on the ground, cross-legged, and listened to the soft sound of the lake lapping at his feet.

"Are you going to tell me what you want from me?" He heard Castiel sit next to him and waited for an answer.

"Yes. But before that, I'm going to tell you my story, so that you can decide by yourself if I deserve to be helped."

Something in Dean wanted to shake Castiel, shake out the edge of bitterness in his voice. Instead, he just nodded.

"Seems fair. Go on."

There was a moment of silence. Next to him, Castiel seemed to search his words, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"A long time ago," he began "my Father created Earth. He put in it the first creatures and decided to watch them evolve. It was… some sort of an experiment, I think, though I wasn't born at the time. These creatures were nothing like the humans. Humanity, as you know it, developed itself without any help. When the first humans walked on Earth, my Father was forced to make a choice. He could yield Humanity to his Will, or let them evolve on their own without acting directly on them. He gifted Humanity with Free Will. So he created the Angels. We were the Warriors, born from our Father's Will and only that. We were to be His eyes and His hand, His weapons. The perfect, mindless army."

Castiel paused and looked down at where his boot-clad feet were touching the dark water. When he talked again, his tone was harsh and dour.

"Back in Heaven, I led a garrison. For centuries, millenniums, we've fought. We've fought humans when asked to; we've fought demons when the first Heavenly War was declared. At the time, I still thought I was fighting for the greater good. But one day, I started to feel… different from my brethren. I had questions. I had – I had doubts, Dean. I started to wonder why none of my brothers and sisters had heard our Father's voice for centuries. And I started to watch Humanity more closely. The more I did, the more I wondered why I was never given the choice. And I realized something else, too. Our orders had changed. During the course of time, they'd stopped being strategic attempts to guide Humanity down the path of Free Will to become hazardous attacks destined to cause pain and chaos. I saw the consequences of our actions. People dying from epidemics we had spread. Families driven out of their homes by what humans called natural disasters. I started to talk to other Angels. Some were horrified, even threatened to report me to the Council. But a great deal of them listened to me, sometimes even openly agreed with me. We started to unite, to exchange in the greatest secrecy. We discovered two things: Heaven had been corrupted by a demonic alliance, and our Father was missing. Nobody knew where he was. The Archangels had lied to us."

Castiel's voice broke a little and Dean's hand shot up without his permission. He awkwardly placed it on the Angel's shoulder, mirroring the comforting gesture from earlier. Castiel turned to him, a strange look on his face, but Dean resisted the urge to take his hand back.

"For what it's worth, Cas, I know what it means to have an absent father."

In the dimness of the dream, Dean saw a light blush make its way to Castiel's cheeks. His expression softened, even as a flash of surprise went through his eyes.

"I know you do, Dean. And it's worth more than you think."

Embarrassed without knowing why, Dean cleared his throat and averted his gaze. He lifted his hand and picked up a twig from the ground, idly toying with it.

"As I was saying," Castiel said, "We were starting to form an alliance when I did the unthinkable. I disobeyed. I was given a direct order from the Archangel Raphael. The order was to destroy an Island and its inhabitants; I refused to lead my garrison."

Enraptured, Dean heard Castiel's breathing hitch. He wondered how much time had passed since Castiel had been able to just _talk_ to someone.

"You see," Castiel went on, "Obedience is all an Angel has. Without it, I was –" He paused and licked his lips nervously. "I was an abomination. Yes, I believe it's the term Raphael used to describe me before pronouncing my death sentence."

Dean gasped and broke his twig. "But you're not-"

"–Dead? No, that much is obvious. My sister Anael pleaded my cause in front of the Council and managed to transform my sentence into an exile. The last thing I remember from Heaven is Zachariah telling me that, if I was so in love with the mud-monkeys, I'd have to watch them burn. When I woke up, two years had passed down on Earth and I had been cursed never to be able to leave my stone coffin. My Grace had been sealed in the pedestal by an Archangel, and I could only use it to keep myself alive. I became the useless witness of a corrupted Heaven. I heard them fight and die, and I couldn't do anything. I heard the songs of my brothers and sisters falling from Grace or being killed like insects. I started to feel things I'd never known before. Anger. Sadness. Grief. And I came to sense humans, too. Their joys and pains, I've felt them all. I've witnessed the forbidden love of two women, more than a century ago. I've watched the anguish and the rage of one of them when her beloved was killed by the hatred of ignorant people. I was there, helpless, when she cut her wrists and bled to death. I've felt the birth of hundreds of children. It was beautiful, Dean, but it was terrifying. You humans feel things in such a strong way. And I, I whose emotions had always been muffled by my Duty, found myself drowning without being able to reach for the surface."

Dean blinked, eyes wet with unshed tears. Tears that weren't his. Not really, anyway. He let out a breath to try and contain his rage.

"Dean? Are you alright?"

Dean shook his head and tried to find the right words. "I thought angels were supposed to be… guardians," he said roughly. "Fluffy wings, halos. You know, Michael Landon. You just described me a bunch of self-righteous, power-high dicks."

Castiel didn't answer, and when Dean turned to him, he saw that his lips were pinched in a thin line, eyes bright. He seemed sad – _rejected_, and the sight panicked Dean for a moment before understanding flashed through him.

"No, no, Cas. I wasn't talking about you," he said quickly, "I mean, I guess you're not all dicks, seeing as there were other Angels who thought like you. I just…" he chuckled darkly. "It's a lot to take in, y'know? Last week, if someone would have told me that Angels were a thing, I'd probably have laughed. I guess I didn't – you know."

"Believe," Castiel said softly, understandingly.

Dean nodded. They stayed silent for a long time, just watching a dark cloud slowly make its way and cover the bright blaze of the moon. Dean glanced at Castiel to see him lost in thought, a sad, shattered little smile tugging at his lips.

"I'd have broken," Dean breathed, closing his eyes to dissipate the embarrassment he felt at the admission. "You're – you're strong, man."

That seemed to snap Castiel out of his self-loathing haze. "You would not have broken, Dean Winchester," he said in a fierce tone. "You are the first soul I have been able to reach since...a very long time, and it burns brighter than any sun I've ever seen."

Dean felt his eyes widen and his cheeks heat. He scowled at the ground and wished away the blush.

"Damn it, dude, you can't just go and say shit like that," he groaned.

Cas made a confused sound in the back of his throat.

"Why?"

"You just –can't, okay?"

A beat of silence, then: "Dean. Look at me."

Dean reluctantly looked up to find Cas' gaze on him, infinitely sad.

"A month ago, the Host fell silent. I can't hear my brethren anymore. For the first time in my life, I feel… alone," Cas admitted quietly. "The Seal is weakening, my Grace is fleeing. I am dying, I am alone and I am –" His voice trailed off and he looked away.

"Scared," finished Dean, and Cas nodded, jaw clenched.

"When I was able to reach your soul, I explored it. I relished being able to communicate with someone. Don't diminish your righteousness before me, Dean Winchester. Not when I know you more than you know yourself."

Dean wanted to argue. He wanted to scowl, to show Cas all the ways in which he was broken, but something in Cas' eyes made him close his mouth and simply shake his head. They looked at each other for a beat too long before Dean sighed.

"Alright. What can we do?"

Cas' expression changed, hope and bewilderment obvious in every line of his face.

"What?"

"What can we do to, like, un-curse you? I'm not letting you die. Damn, _we'_re not letting you die, Cas."

Castiel opened his mouth. Closed it again. He let out a frustrated sound and closed his eyes briefly.

"The only person who could undo the Archangel's Seal to reunite me with my Grace is an Archangel," he said, shoulders sagging slightly.

Dean blinked. "I – what? No, man, there's gotta be another way."

Cas shook his head. "There isn't. Believe me, I've had the time to think about it. But –"

"But?" Dean prompted.

"But there's –someone. Someone whose –ah, allegiances have always been… shady, to say the least."

Dean perked up at that. "Who?"

"His name is Gabriel. He was one of the first Archangels, along with Michael and Lucifer."

"Good ol' Lucy," Dean muttered. "And where can we find this Gabriel?"

Cas seemed flustered. "Well, the last time I heard about him, he was going by the name of Loki."

Dean's breath caught in his throat and he coughed, choking on his own saliva in the process.

"I'm sorry, but did you just say _Loki_?" he wheezed in disbelief.

Cas gave a sheepish half-shrug, lifting one shoulder and letting it fall.

"Yes."

"Well," Dean exclaimed with false cheeriness. "That's great. We're just gonna put an ad in the papers: Wanted, Loki, ex-pagan god, his brother got into a fucking mess, reward two dollars and a slice of pie. I'm sure it will go well."

Castiel squinted at him.

"Dean, I'm not sure if Gabriel reads the newspapers."

Dean looked at Cas to see if he was joking, but the man seemed genuinely confused by his proposition.

"Dude, that was – you know what, never mind. We're going to find a way. I'll tell Sam about it. If there's some weird-ass angel summoning, he'll find it. He's the best at research."

"I know of some rituals that could summon an Archangel, but I'm not sure if a human could use them without… well, without dying."

Dean blinked. "Yeah, no dying."

A smile ghosted on Cas' face, but it was strained. Dean suddenly noticed the paleness of his skin, the dark rings under his eyes. He seemed ill, on the verge of passing out. When he raised a hand to his forehead to push a strand of black hair, Dean noticed it was shaking violently.

"Cas," he said urgently, "are you okay?"

"I have to go," Cas answered, his blue eyes glazed. "I can't strain my Grace any longer if I want to be able to contact you later in the week."

He made no move to get up, staring at his trembling hands without really seeing them. Dean jumped to his feet.

"Shit, man, why didn't you tell me your batteries were flat? You look like you're about to puke."

He stuck out his hand. Cas watched it for a beat, then clasped it with his. With Dean's help, he got up on shaky legs, but didn't immediately let go of Dean's hand. Instead, he softly put his other hand on Dean's wrist and met his eyes.

"Dean, I –"

"Yeah, I get it. Save it for when you're out of this shitty situation," Dean grumbled. He took a step backwards and tried to shake off Castiel's grip, but it was firm.

"If you need me, you just have to pray," Cas said in a solemn tone. He seemed to hesitate, opening his mouth, but didn't say anything else. A second later, Dean's hand wasn't holding anything but air.

"Yeah, that wasn't cryptic at all," he groused and looked around. He just had to figure out how to wake up.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes, surprised to find himself bathed in darkness. He blearily reached for his cellphone on the nightstand and swore when he saw it was only four in the morning.

His conversation with Castiel ran through his mind, bringing with it new questions and a strange feeling of loss. There was something almost intimate about sharing a dream with someone, especially with a Freaking Angel of the Lord with no regard for the concept of personal space whatsoever.

"_God's away on business_. Heh, I guess old Tom was right," he muttered, chuckling without humor. He slipped out of the bed, careful not to wake his brother, and stretched with a groan of satisfaction. He pondered for a moment the idea of going out to buy a soda, but decided against it. Instead, he padded his way to the table and opened Sam's laptop. It switched on with an obnoxiously loud noise and he froze, waiting for Sam to shoot up from his bed in a scandalized frenzy. Sam only grumbled a string of incomprehensible aspersions and burrowed his head further under his pillow. Breathing a relieved sigh, Dean opened the browser and quickly typed "_Archangel Gabriel_" in the search bar. He forewent the Wikipedia page, browsed through a string of weird fanfictions before finally finding a site that seemed reliable.

He didn't learn anything useful, except for the fact that Gabriel was apparently the bearer of God's Justice. If that part was true, the dude was certainly going to help them set Castiel free. If his punishment wasn't unfair, Dean didn't know what was.

He certainly didn't learn how to find Gabriel, and had the feeling that trying to type "_Summon an Archangel_" in Google wouldn't be a very helpful experience. Staring past the bright screen, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His few hours of sleep hadn't brought him rest, and he wanted nothing more than a cup of the strongest coffee he could find. He peered at the unblinking numbers on the digital clock and sighed again, explosively. He wasn't going to find anything open at this hour.

"Dean?" Sam's voice, thick with sleep, startled him. He whipped his head around, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His brother was sitting on his bed, blinking owlishly in the bluish light produced by the laptop screen. "'Time is it?"

"Four and a half. Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean replied roughly. His brother yawned and squinted at him.

"You're not watching porn, are you? 'Cause that would be weird. Not to mention, ugh, gross," Sam mumbled. Dean barked out a laugh and shook his head.

"Nah, Sam, no porn." He winked at his brother. "I'm doing research."

"Research," Sam repeated slowly. "Right." He sprawled on his bed, turning his back to the laptop. Dean waited for a minute, listening for Sam's breathing to even out. He wondered, not for the first time, how he would explain the situation to his brother and realized there was a good chance Sam would think Dean had dreamed the whole story – and he _had, _in a way. If the situation had been reversed and Sammy had come to him one morning, claiming to have dreamwalked with a freaking Angel, Dean would probably have processed an entire exorcism on him before he'd even finished the story. He groaned and resisted the urge to slam his forehead on the table. He wasn't even sure how to explain himself the sheer _trust_ he felt for Castiel, the quiet assurance that he wasn't lying. He hadn't even questioned the reason of his punishment. For all he knew, Castiel was only using him to get out his stone prison. But the Angel's words echoed in his mind: _"Your soul burns brighter than any sun I've ever seen,"_ and it chased his suspicions like a feeble puff of smoke. One couldn't have imitated the fierceness in Cas' voice, the genuine conviction in his eyes. The guy certainly had a skill for melodrama, but after more than a century without being able to talk to anyone, Dean couldn't really blame him for being socially awkward. He supposed he'd have plenty of time to teach Castiel things like "don't go and spy people's souls without asking, that tends to piss them off" when he was free.

And he _would _be, Dean would make sure of it.

* * *

"Sam," Dean began between two gulps of blissfully black coffee. The coffee-shop they were in was empty, save for an old man reading a book in a corner and the tired-looking waitress who was humming quietly in the kitchens while preparing their breakfasts. It smelled delicious, and Dean's stomach gave an appreciative growl. Sam didn't look up from where he was scribbling furiously in his notebook, muttering as he went.

"Yeah?"

Dean nervously picked at his spoon and took great care not to look in his brother's direction. "Do you believe in Angels?"

The sound of Sam's writing stopped and his pen fell on the Formica table with a clatter. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Dean put down his spoon and wiped his palms on his jeans. He looked up to find his brother frowning at him with the expression of someone who didn't know if he was being mocked. Dean sighed.

"Angels, Sammy. Do you believe in them?"

At first, Sam didn't answer. He simply continued to stare at Dean like he'd sprouted a second head. Then he gave a curt nod, jaw set in a defensive line. "Yeah, I do."

"Oo-kay," Dean breathed. "That's gonna make things easier." _I hope, _he didn't add.

"Easier?" Sam's frown deepened. "Dean, what are you talking about? Are you okay? You seem a bit… off, today."

"Tell me about it," Dean said under his breath. Sam opened his mouth to ask another question, but the waitress arrived with their breakfast. Dean stared at his scrambled eggs, wondering if he could get out of this one for now. He was hungry, he was tired, and wasn't in the mood to try and convince his brother. However, when he looked up, Sam was still looking at him expectantly, completely ignoring his own plate. Great.

"I talked to Castiel last night. And the night before, too," Dean blurted out. He winced. He wasn't an expert in the fine art of subtlety, but even he knew that his admission could have been smoother.

"You – Castiel – Pamela's – _What?" _Sam stuttered in an embarrassingly squeaky voice.

"See the statue in Maggie's garden?" Dean asked, and waited for Sam to nod wordlessly. "That's an Angel."

Sam gave him the "_duh" _look.

"Don't look at me like that, I mean he's an _actual_ Angel."

Sam gaped like a fish. "Dean… are you _high_?"

Dean scowled. "Shut it. I'm serious, Sammy."

Something in his voice must have given him away, because Sam's expression became more serious. He pushed his plate further on the table and looked at him earnestly.

"Okay. I'm listening."

"I'm going to ask you not to interrupt me. Listen to the whole story, then you can – well, you can do your thing where you question my sanity."

Sam looked worried at that. "Oh, God." he said. "Alright, shoot."

"Okay," Dean began. "Remember the day before yesterday, when we went at Maggie's to see the statue? Well, the night after that, I had a weird dream. At first, I thought it was just that, a weird dream. But then…"

* * *

To his credit, Sam didn't interrupt once while Dean was recalling his encounters with Castiel. He seemed to resist the urge to ask a question several times, but listened with rapt attention the rest of the time. His expression went from disbelieving – when Dean told him about his first dream – to horrified – when he described Castiel's punishment – to finally settle on determined. When Dean finished, their breakfasts were cold and the waitress was giving them dirty looks over the counter. Sam seemed lost in thought, staring at Dean without really seeing him.

"Okay," was the only thing he said.

"Okay?" Dean echoed. "_Okay? _That's all you've got to say? No questions? No counter-arguments?"

Sam shrugged. "I've got tons of questions, but they're more for the Angel than for you. And, well, I believe you. You're my brother. If you say that really happened, then it's true. And, come to think of it, it makes sense. I mean, the statue appeared out of nowhere one day, and… I don't know, Dean, you felt it, didn't you? It's… _sad_, not evil."

Dean remembered the broken look in Castiel's eyes when he'd told him he'd been forced to hear his brothers and sisters dying in a war he'd helped declare. He nodded.

"Yeah, I felt it."

"So, what do we do now?"

"We find this Gabriel dude and we drag him here by any means necessary," Dean said.

Sam looked unimpressed by his plan. "Dean, you do realize that Gabriel is an Archangel, right? If he doesn't want to be found, we won't find him. And that if we happen to piss him off, he only has to lift a finger to smite the shit out of us."

Dean shrugged. "What's life without a little risk?"

Sam didn't seem convinced.

"C'mon, man. He's just a guy. Granted, a winged guy with enough power to feed a nuclear bomb, but really, how hard can it be?"

* * *

As it turned out, it was very hard. They spent the morning in a frenzy of phone calls, brainstorming for ideas. Sam called Bobby, who grumbled a promise to send them everything he could find on angelic lore, all the while claiming that he didn't want to know what it was for and warning them that if they started an apocalypse by accident, they'd better clean up their mess. The Internet didn't prove itself very useful. Dean meandered around the room; he was tired, but unable to sleep.

"Dude," Sam said, "You're driving me crazy. Stop pacing and make yourself useful." He thrust his notebook into Dean's hands. "Write down everything Castiel told you that might be helpful," he said sternly.

Glad to have a distraction, Dean took the journal. The task wasn't easy. Everything Cas had told him raised more questions than answers. Why had the Host fell silent? Was that a sign of Castiel's weakening, or a proof that something had happened in Heaven, something so terrible it had cut off the link between Heaven and the Angels? What if Gabriel was dead? Dean found himself thrown in the middle of a world that, barely two days ago, he didn't even know existed. The mass of things they didn't know was overwhelming.

_If you need me, just pray_. Dean remembered Castiel's last words before he'd disappeared from his dream, but he forced himself to bury them in the back of his mind. The Angel had looked worn down, and Dean didn't want him to die from exhaustion before they could even make a breakthrough.

They wouldn't get the books sent by Bobby for two days, and Dean was feeling restless by noon.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asked from where he was chewing pensively on a slice of pizza and frowning at his laptop.

"Yeah?"

"Can you come here for a minute? I'm not sure, but I may have found something."

Dean rushed towards the table and peered over his brother's shoulder. On the screen, he saw a succession of symbols. They looked like pictograms from an ancient language Dean couldn't identify; maybe Phoenician Alphabet.

"Do these look familiar to you?" Sam asked, pointing successively at two symbols. Dean frowned and studied them more closely. They indeed struck a chord in his memory. He closed his eyes, trying to remember where he'd seen them. A flash of leather and metal shining in the moonlight appeared behind his eyelids.

"Sammy, that's two of the symbols engraved in Cas' armor!"

"_Cas_?" Sam sounded like he didn't know whether to be scandalized or amused. "Dean, did you give a _nickname_ to an Angel?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, he didn't seem to mind."

Sam shook his head, but a small smile was tugging at his lips.

"I think we should go back to examine the stat – Castiel. These symbols, they're called Enochian sigils. Enochian is the language used by Angels. The theology scholar who runs this blog has worked on a translation of some of these sigils. I think I can translate the sigils on Castiel's armor, using his work as a reference to check if it's accurate. If it turns out to be right, I might be able to come up with a Summoning Ritual."

Dean grinned. "Sammy, you're a friggin' genius."

He made a move to take his jacket, but changed his mind when he saw the bright blue sky. "Let's go!" he called out cheerfully. He heard Sam's good-natured grumble of "_hyperactive brothers_", but soon, Sam was following on his heels as he stepped out of the room.

* * *

Maggie seemed pleased, if surprised, to see them. This time, she was wearing yellow overalls and a plaid shirt. She had a smudge of blue paint on her forehead and seemed to be in a better mood than the day before. She beamed at Sam, who blushed like a teenager. Dean made a mental note to mock him later, but couldn't find it in himself to feel rejected when Maggie asked his brother if he wanted to see her work. He rolled his eyes at Sam's pleading look and took the journal from his hands.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he whispered before turning on his heels and into the garden, laughing at Sam's indignant splutters.

He made his way through the garden. The atmosphere seemed lighter, less grim, than it had been during their first visit. When stepped into the clearing, he was struck once again with how beautiful the statue was. How beautiful _Castiel_ was. He was aware that these kinds of thoughts had taken another meaning now that he knew Castiel was a real guy, and that they were bordering sacrilegious. He tried not to analyze it too much.

"Hi there, buddy," he said softly when he arrived at the foot of the statue. "I hope you're okay. You were in pretty bad shape when you took off last night."

He opened the notebook and studiously began to reproduce the sigils on Castiel's armor.

"Damn, you must be bored out of your mind in here. Y'know what I'm doing? I'm drawing the sigils on your armor. Sam figured out it was Enochian. He told me he'd be able to translate them. He's smart. Don't worry; we won't need you for now. He seemed positive he'd manage it. I'll help, of course, but I'm not really a research kind of guy. I'm not patient enough. He thinks he might be able to come up with a Summoning Ritual that would work when used by a human."

He carried on his babbling, transcribing the sigils with confident movements, pausing only when confronted by a particularly complex symbol. After a while, he checked his work, holding the notebook at arm's length to compare his drawings to the real thing. Satisfied, he nodded decidedly.

"Well, I'm done here, Cas. I don't know if you'll thank me for talking 'bout you to Sammy. I'm pretty sure he's got a whole questionnaire prepared for you."

He stepped back, oddly reluctant to leave.

Before turning around, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I hope you can hear me, Cas. I wasn't kidding, you know. I'm not letting you die. I promise."

_Don't make promises you can't keep, _whispered a voice in his mind, a voice that sounded awfully like his father's. Dean shook it off and pocketed the notebook, stepping back between the trees that guarded the entry of the clearing.

* * *

The next day, an old man was found wandering in the vicinity of the manor. His eyes were gone, but he didn't seem to notice it. He was chattering incoherently, claiming that he'd seen God in a rosebush. The crowd of people watching the ambulance take him away shook their heads and muttered about the ravages of senility.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Time was running out.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to bethanyyerinn for her wonderful beta work. Any remaining mistakes are mine._

**Fandom:** Supernatural

**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/OC

**Genre:** Alternate Universe, Romance, Supernatural

**Rating:** PG-13 for this chapter

**Warnings:** None for this chapter

* * *

**T**he **_R_**enegade **_A_**ngel

**Chapter III**

Dean didn't need to look up to recognize Castiel's quiet arrival. When he heard the soft rustle, he smiled and sat further on the platform to make room. Cas wordlessly sat by his side. Dean heard him squirm for a moment before he seemed to deem his position comfortable.

"You were waiting for me," Cas said. It was a statement more than a question, and Dean didn't find in himself the energy to deny it. To be perfectly honest with himself–though he rarely was these days–it was true, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He certainly didn't say that he'd gone to bed every night hoping to spend a couple of hours in dreamy awareness. Instead, he shrugged casually.

"Yeah, well, dreamwalking is good for the nerves, and I have to admit that real life hasn't been very calm these days," he said. He knew it was a feeble excuse, so he abandoned it, saying instead, "What do you want, anyway?"

There was a small sound next to him, almost like laughter, but when he glanced at Cas, he found him composed as ever, a little quirk on his lips the only sign giving away his amusement.

"How is the translation going?"

Dean froze and let his gaze dive into the darkness surrounding the lake. The truth was, the translation was going really fucking _slowly_. Translating Enochian had proven itself harder than they'd expected. They'd received the books sent by Bobby and their readings had enlightened several mistakes in the scholar's work. Sam was working hard; Dean had to give him that. He felt almost useless, watching his brother mutter words in Latin while scribbling feverishly on his notebook.

"Sammy's still trying to find the Summoning Ritual, but it's harder than it seemed," he said truthfully. Cas nodded and his eyes met Dean's, bright and earnest.

"I appreciate what you and your brother are doing, Dean. I don't think I've told you that."

Dean smiled at Cas' grave tone. He didn't look away from the lake, trying to ignore the weird feeling quavering in his stomach, an odd sense of foreboding. The silence was too heavy, devoid of the usual sounds of lapping water, and he wished it away. A nightingale started singing a soft, sad melody and suddenly, the atmosphere wasn't quite as strained anymore.

"That's what friends are for, isn't it? No big deal."

In the following silence, Dean replayed the words in his head, and was shocked to realize it was the absolute truth. The fact filled him with both terror and joy. Dean had never really had the occasion to make friends; he'd never had the occasion to know someone long enough to call them friends, anyway. There were Sam and Bobby, of course, but Sam was his brother and Bobby was family, if not by blood. And here he was, letting an _angel_ explore his soul and make himself at home in his dreams, without feeling defensive in the slightest. He bristled at the thought, feeling all his old fears and the rules his father had implanted in his head since his childhood come back. _Don't chit-chat with the supernatural_ was the unspoken one, but also the most important, and it had never failed him until now. Because every time they did so, something bad happened. He remembered the expression on Sammy's face when he'd had to shoot a young werewolf woman he'd fallen for. He remembered his broken look when he'd climbed back in the car, and closed his eyes to try and avoid the panic that started flooding his chest.

"I've never had friends," Cas said and, just like that, the wonder in his tone broke Dean's last defenses. Against his better judgment, he felt himself relax, the tangle of tension in his back unknotting slowly. He shrugged and let his gaze drift from the lake to Cas' face. He was sitting cross-legged next to Dean, hands laid flat on his thighs. With his solemn stance, straight as a wooden plank, he seemed so out of place, so anachronistic, that Dean couldn't hold back a chuckle. Of course, his first friend would be a comatose angel dressed like a freaking Spartan. It just figured.

"Well, now you do." he said, trying to ignore the way his voice sounded shaky, "If I'm being honest, I've never really had friends either. I'll probably suck at it."

Castiel smiled, one of his too-gentle smiles that set his eyes alight with something indecipherable and softened the hard set of his jaw.

"I'm happy to be your friend, Dean Winchester," he said, with this brand of fervor that generally ended with sex or tears in the chick-flicks that Dean totally _never_ watched. He stared at his hands, unsure of what to say.

"Don't you get bored, stuck in your friggin' statue 24/7?" he finally blurted out. Cas didn't appear perturbed in the least by the abrupt change of subject.

"Angels don't get–" he started, but then he paused and blinked confusedly. "Yes. It's boring. Terribly boring, in fact," he amended.

Dean snorted a laugh when he saw the discomfiture on Cas' face. "And here I am, dreaming of Miracle Lake. Man, you must be sick of this place. What d'you think of a change of scenery? Hey, have you ever seen the ocean?"

Cas gave him a sour look. "I once got caught in the eye of a cyclone and fell into the Pacific Ocean, if that's what you mean. I met some really strange creatures there." Catching on Dean's befuddled expression, he seemed to deflate a bit and rubbed at his nape, scowling at his feet. "Obviously, that was not what you meant. My apologies. I still have to work on your idioms."

Dean shook himself out of his bewilderment. "Dude, you're telling me you've never actually _seen_ the ocean? We went once, with Sammy and… and our Dad." He closed his eyes, trying to remember the details of the place. "We were on a case on the West Coast. I was just a kid, no more than sixteen. We stayed in the town for two months. Sammy had the time of his life. He even managed to get himself a girlfriend before we had to…" his voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Anyway, I think you'd like it."

"I do."

Dean's eyes snapped open. He was greeted with the sight of sand dunes arching on the landscape, the sun mirroring in the waves. As far as the eye could see, everything was blue and white. A warm sunbeam tickled his cheek. He tipped his head back and inhaled sharply, feeling something tighten in his chest when the dizzying smell of iodine and seaweed invaded his nostrils.

"It's beautiful, Dean," Cas said, as if Dean had created the landscape with his bare hands rather than just digging a little nest in his memories. Dean shrugged and plunged his left hand into the sand, amazed by the scrape on his skin, the feeling of every grain. Everything seemed so _real,_ he had to force himself to remember it was just an illusion, a mirage stuck within his brain. It felt like visiting a long lost friend and realizing how much his life had changed.

He'd walked with his father and his brother on this beach. This day had been as if someone had hit the pause button on their lives. He remembered his father's face, tired and beaten from the hunt, but smiling as he carefully watched Sammy run around like a puppy. The night after this, their father had announced that he'd found them an apartment and that they'd stay there until the end of the school year. It wasn't much–only two months and they'd hit the road again–but the sight of Sam's beaming face had been enough to convince Dean that it was the greatest gift Dad could have given them.

He realized he was talking, spilling his silly memories to Cas, who was watching him with such rapt attention Dean suddenly felt like he was revealing the meaning of life.

"You seem very close to your brother," Cas said once Dean stopped babbling.

He licked his lips and frowned, unsure of the truth in this statement. "We–we were. Close, I mean. We were inseparable when we were kids. Dad–Dad loved us, I know that much, and he did his best with us. But, you know. He was obsessed with finding the demon that killed our mom. Sometimes, he'd go on hunts and leave us for days, and I had to take care of Sammy all by myself. But Sam, he wanted to be _normal_, you know. He wanted it so fucking much, one day he announced that he'd gotten accepted into Stanford, full scholarship. He hadn't even told me he'd applied. Hadn't trusted me enough to tell me." It had stung. It still did, even now, years after, to remember Sam's closed off face, the determined glint in his eyes as he announced he was leaving. "I think it's the worst fight we ever had. Then, he was gone and I was alone with Dad. Few weeks later, Dad told me he had a lead on the yellow-eyed demon and that it would be better if I hunted on my own." Dean blinked several times and forced himself to choke off the bustle of his emotions. A seagull ripped through the air with a piercing cry and he watched it as it plunged into the waves to catch a fish. He breathed out deeply before speaking again.

"So, I did. Until five months ago, when Dad stopped picking up his phone. I looked everywhere for him. Turned out he'd been killed by the very same demon he'd been looking for all his life." Dean chuckled darkly at the irony. "When I told Sammy, he asked me if he could come with me to find this son of a bitch. Get revenge, you know. It only took us one month to track him and kill him. When we were done, Sam–I don't know what got into him. He ditched Stanford, he broke up with his girlfriend and he followed me. But–I know he's not happy this way. He's never wanted this life, and still, he stayed. I don't get it."

When he stopped talking, silence greeted him. Castiel was contemplating the ocean, and Dean thought for a moment he hadn't listened to a word he'd said. Then, he caught on the minute frown furrowing his brow, the way he was biting pensively at his bottom lip.

"He's worried about you. He wants to protect you, and you don't like it."

It wasn't a question, just a plain statement, in the same calm voice Cas would have used if he'd commented on the weather. Trust an angel to decipher your deepest fears and spread them out in the open without even blinking.

"Yeah," Dean said softly. "But it's not his job, you know. I can't… all my life I've been taking care of _him_. He's always been my baby brother. And here he is, all–_grown-up._ I can't understand him."

Cas nodded as if Dean's babbling made sense. He seemed to deem it unnecessary to add anything, for which Dean was grateful. The tide was rising quickly, and the regular sound soothed something deep inside of him. Without thinking twice, he laid on the ground until his head touched the warm sand.

"Is it even possible to sleep in a dream? Isn't it kind of redundant?" he mumbled, eyelids fluttering with heavy fatigue.

"Anything is possible in a dream," Cas answered, and Dean felt like there was something there he should have understood, but felt too tired to think about it further. Instead, he smiled faintly.

"Can you sleep, Cas?"

Cas didn't answer at first, except for a little sigh that sounded way too tired. Way too human.

"I can't. But sometimes, I wish I could," he finally said. The world was spinning around Dean, waves crashing down at his feet, sun warming his skin. He was too comfortable to even think about resisting the pull of sleep.

The last thing he saw was Cas' secretive smile as he carefully lay next to him. The last thing he thought was that it maybe should have freaked him out a little. The last thing he heard was Cas' low voice, a promise.

"I'll watch over you."

The shrill sound of his phone ringing woke him up. He sat on his bed, blinking blearily. He felt disorientated, as if he'd missed something important without knowing what.

"You gonna take that or not?" he heard Sam mumble from the table.

He grunted and rubbed his eyes before squinting towards the nightstand to find his phone. "'llo," he said, voice rough with sleep.

"_About friggin' time,_" Bobby's gruff tone made Dean smile sleepily.

"Hey Bobby. Nice to hear your melodious voice."

"_Don't sass me, boy." _

_"_Yeah, yeah," Dean said through a yawn. "Any reason you're calling, or you just missed me?"

Bobby grumbled a curse and Dean grinned. It was really too easy to wind him up. "_You boys still in New-Orleans?" _Dean straightened up on the bed and tried to clear his mind. This was Bobby's business tone.

"Yeah, still on the Miracle Lake case, why?"

"_Got something for you."_

"Bobby, we're already on a case."

"_Yeah, well, you can take three hours for a salt and burn, can't you?" _

Dean hummed and thought about it. On one hand, he couldn't deny the proposition was tempting. He needed to calm the restlessness thrumming in his veins, and nothing relaxed him better than a good old hunt. On the other hand, Sam would want to come with him, and Dean didn't want to delay the translation. He glanced at his brother, who didn't seem interested in the least by what Dean was doing. He'd have to play a tight game, but it was feasible.

"You know what, Bobby, I think I can," he said cheerfully.

"_That's the Dean I know. I'll email you everything I can find." _

Dean hung up and stirred on the bed with a yawn. He got up quickly and stumbled into the bathroom and in the shower. He was done three minutes later, too impatient to even consider shaving. He opened the laptop, smiling when Sam didn't even acknowledge him. The email Bobby had sent him was concise: addresses of the witnesses, location of the potentially haunted house, plus a brief history. He winced when he saw the cause of death. It sure wasn't going to be easy.

"We got a salt and burn twenty-five miles from here," He said casually. "You know, usual stuff. Family was killed by an arsonist ten years ago, the house was never rebuilt. Couple of kids had the brilliant idea to go there last night. Apparently, they went back home with their tails between their legs, claiming they saw a ghost."

Sam hummed, head almost hidden behind the stash of books he was thumbing through, oblivious to the world. His hair was a mess and he had the feverish look of a rocket scientist on the verge of making the discovery of his life. Chances were that he hadn't even listened to a word Dean had said. Which was exactly what he was counting on.

"I'm going to take care of it, Sam."

This time, Sam nodded, vaguely acknowledging that Dean was talking to him. "You want me to come with you?" he asked absently.

"Nope," Dean grinned. "Like I said, it's just a salt and burn, shouldn't be too hard. Plus, you got enough on your plate."

"'Kay then. Be careful," Sam muttered, already lost in his own thoughts. Dean shook his head and left the room as fast as he could before his words got through the haze of information clouding his brother's judgment. He felt guiltily relieved when he made it to his car without being interrupted. He slammed the door and sighed. His head was buzzing with the beginning of a headache, which only served to comfort him in his decision to take the hunt. He wasn't a man who relished in being stuck in a motel room, pleasant as it was. He liked the smell of leather, the purr of the Impala's engine. He loved the feeling of anticipation humming in his guts, coursing through his veins like blood. He shut down the guilt that stirred low in his stomach at the thought of Cas. It wasn't like he could do anything. He was a hunter, and today, he'd act like one.

He'd been driving for five minutes when his cellphone buzzed angrily in his pocket. He reached for it, chuckling when he saw Sam's number on the screen. He decided to ignore the call, casually throwing his phone on the backseat.

The ghost had been seen in an abandoned house on the outskirts of a small town, not so different from Miracle Lake. Three kids wanting to spice up their lives had decided to explore it. Dean sighed in irritation. It was always teenagers. Know-it-all brats who wanted to take a little risk and ended up upsetting some random ghost. He wasn't enough of an old coot not to remember his teenage years, but he'd never had this craving for rebellion, not the same way Sam had. Just before Sam had left, he'd told Dean "_You're just_ _Dad's good little soldier. Call me back when you're able to think for yourself_", and the words had hurt much more than the punch he'd thrown in his brother's direction.

"Fuck," he muttered, turning up the volume of AC/DC's _Thunderstruck_ to drown the bitter edge of the words that kept floating in the back of his mind. He wasn't one to stay immersed in the past. He'd long understood that, if he wanted to live fully, he'd better not look back, but his talk with Cas had brought back a bunch of old scars he'd thought were buried deeply in his memory. They still hurt far more than he'd expected.

On the backseat, his phone buzzed again. This time, Dean didn't even spare it a glance.

"Are you here for the little boy?" Heather asked. She was a pale, red eyed girl, the wide shadows under her eyes tainting her otherwise pretty face. Her father seemed worse for the wear, peeking suspiciously from the kitchen at regular intervals.

Dean blinked. The _what_ now?

"Uh, yes." He said uncertainly. Then, with a little more authority: "Exactly. I'm Agent Perry, FBI."

The girl glanced at his stubbly cheeks and narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Dean awkwardly straightened his tie, regretting not having taken the time to shave.

"Can you tell me what happened back at the house?"

The girl glared at him. "Why should I? The police didn't believe us," she said bitterly.

_The police are idiots who wouldn't recognize a spirit if it was dancing in front of them covered with fucking white sheets,_ Dean thought. He smiled encouragingly. "I'm not the police."

After a beat, Heather seemed to concede the point. She relaxed a little, the hard tension in her shoulders receding tentatively. She shrugged. "I guess not. Okay, what do you want to know?"

"Tell me about this little boy."

He didn't miss the shudder that went through Heather's body. She cleared her throat.

"Well, Andy, Leah, and I had decided to spend the night at the freak house." At Dean's raised eyebrow, she flushed a little. "We've always called it that. I–I told my parents I was sleeping at Leah's." She glanced remorsefully in the direction of the kitchen. A loud clattering sound rang out, and Dean had to refrain himself from snickering–seemed like Heather wouldn't have the occasion to go and visit ghosts before her majority. When she spoke again, her voice was shaking. "We took Andy's car. When we got there, it was dark. We only had our flashlights and our sleeping bags. We'd just arrived when we heard… noise." She paused, eyes wide and eyebrows drawn together, as if daring Dean to laugh.

"Noise?" Dean prompted with all the firmness he could muster.

"Yeah, noise. It sounded like… like a kid crying. Andy started to panic and told us we should beat it, but Leah didn't want to, said that we had to find the kid and take him with us. So we went upstairs and we tried to find where he was. We entered a room–it was a nursery, all burnt out–and the kid was… he was just standingthere, crying. Leah tried to talk to him, and he didn't seem to notice her, so she took his hand and he just–he _disappeared_. Like he was never here in the first place. That's when Andy _really _panicked and got us in the car." She sniffed, valiantly trying to hold back tears. Dean wondered what to do and, for the first time since he'd left the motel, regretted not having taken Sam with him. His brother had the people skills he himself had always lacked. He decided against patting the girl on the shoulder for fear of the gesture being misinterpreted, trying instead to take his most sincere tone.

"Thank you. Don't worry, we'll sort this out," he said, leaning on the armrest to get up. The moment he got on his feet, he felt the slight buzzing in his head become a thunder of pain. He groaned and clutched his forehead in his hand as a stab went right through his brain. He was feeling as if his brain cells were boiling, screaming something he couldn't discern. He felt himself stagger.

_"Hey, are you okay?"_ Heather's faraway voice asked him, echoing against the insides of his cranium, reverberating until it was just nonsensical gibberish.

"Yeah," he groaned. He cautiously opened his eyes, wincing when the too-bright lights imprinted on his retinas like flashes of lightning. He blinked several times, letting his vision adjust. "Yeah, sorry. Must have gotten up too fast." The pain receded as quickly as it had come, leaving him slightly breathless and shuddering. He looked up to see Heather and her father watching him with obvious concern.

"I–" he cleared his throat to chase away the choked resonance of his voice. "Thank you for your help. I'm–yeah, I'm going now," he said inanely before walking deliberately slowly to the door, fighting the urge to make a run for the outside.

"Shit," he muttered, slumping on the driver's seat. He breathed out and peered into the rearview mirror, only to notice that his eyes were bloodshot. "Shit," he repeated with more feeling. He looked like a freaking junkie. Forcing himself to calm own with deep, unsteady breaths, he gripped the steering wheel so tight he felt his knuckles protest.

_Get a grip, Winchester,_ he thought forcefully. Whatever this weird fit had been, it was now over, and Dean was more than happy to blame it on his recent lack of sleep. He didn't waste time before starting up the car. He shattered the heavy silence with his favorite Foreigner tape and lost himself in his driving, absently singing along with _Cold As Ice_. A lingering feeling of unease was gnawing at the bottom of his stomach and he gulped against his constricted throat. He felt like he'd swallowed a brick or two. Now was not the time to be sick, though. He had a job to do and a ghost to gank, and today was not the day a fucking headache would put Dean Winchester down.

Dean didn't feel any better by the time he pulled up to the house. He got out the car without taking time to change. Cold sweat was making his suit stick like a second skin and he winced, shrugging off his jacket and leaving it on the ground. Though he was wet with perspiration, uneasy in his too-formal clothes, he was _cold, _which didn't make any kind of sense in the middle of June. Trying to hold back a shiver, he rummaged through the various items in the trunk until he found an iron crowbar.

The place had surely been nice in the past. It must have been one of these homey little houses which seemed to be made for the average American family. It had been created for Mommy, Daddy, their 2.1 kids, and Bones, the Golden Retriever. The fire had destroyed everything. In the garden, the grass had grown in miserable, yellowish patches. The building in itself was a carbonized shell, all blackened walls and blown out windows. The door wasn't even closed, and he entered slowly, muscles drawn. Even with his pounding headache, it wasn't difficult to get back in hunter mode, senses alert for the slightest unusual smell or noise. He'd been modeled into this life, and it fit him like a glove.

The crying started the minute he entered in what must once have been a nice living-room, which seemed to be where the fire had started. Smoke had given the walls a greyish color and pieces of charcoaled _things _were scattered everywhere. It made Dean shiver, reminded him of his Dad's voice yelling, _"Take your brother outside as fast as you can_" over the deafening sound of the flames swallowing Sam's nursery, swallowing his mother's lifeless body. He tightened his grip on the iron bar and followed the desperate sobs, climbing up the stairs carefully. Each step he took seemed more difficult, his dizziness increasing dramatically. For a second, he thought of going back to his car and coming back later, but a vague remnant of misplaced pride told him to man up and do his fucking job already. He gritted his teeth and pushed a door open.

The kid didn't even seem threatening. Hell, he probably wasn't, all things considered. He was just –standing. Standing in the middle of what had probably been his bedroom, in front of a burnt out bed. He seemed terrified, his translucent skin bright with unreal tears, and didn't seem to notice Dean's arrival. Dean sighed and leaned on the doorframe, trying to ignore the urge to _comfort a freaking ghost_. Anger swelled in his chest as he thought about this broken family. Humans were sometimes worse than supernatural beings. They could be gratuitously cruel, reckless, and twisted, and the sight of this less-than-human little boy, thrown in the middle of this grown-up horror, made Dean hate humanity for a second.

"Okay," he sighed, "Let's get this job done."

Dean wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and held back a fresh wave of nausea as he staggered his way back to the car. The temperature seemed to have changed. Before, no more than two hours before, he'd shuddered as if in the midst of a glacial winter, he now felt like the sky had dropped like a lid on top of him. There was no wind, there was no _air_. Each breath he took felt like swallowing embers and ashes, a repugnant smell that had nothing to do with the pendant containing the kid's hair he'd just burned.

His stomach heaved at the very instant he put his hand on the handle of his driver's door. He jerked backwards just in time to avoid the car, doubled over and promptly vomited on the ground. He stood there, sour tears spilling from his eyes, and tried to ignore the awful taste left in his mouth.

"What the ever living _fuck_ is happening to me?" he asked in a shaky voice. He expected no answer, and he got none. The only response was a low buzzing sound thrumming in his ears. Any other day, he would have mistaken it for adrenaline, but today was different. He didn't believe in coincidences. He leaned on the side of the Impala, fighting to even his breath, and tried to think clearly amongst his screaming neurons. _Headaches_._ Nausea. Never happened before. Before. Before –_ the realization hit him with the force of a punch in the face. He choked on air, coughing so hard he felt his lungs scream in protest.

"Shit," he wheezed, eyes wide and heart beating a tattoo on his ribs. "Shit, _Cas_."

He straightened up and frantically tried to open the car, hands a shaky mess. When he finally got inside, it took him a whole minute and a lot of swearing to remember he'd thrown his cellphone on the backseat. When he opened it, he saw he had _fucking twelve_ missed calls and swore under his breath. He didn't bother listening to the voicemails and called Sam as he hurtled the car off in a deafening screech of tires. The tinny beeping sound rang im his ears once, twice.

_"Dean_." Even through the phone, Sam's voice seemed panicked.

"Sam. What happened?"

_"Dean, why the hell weren't you picking – you know what, I don't care. You've got to come here, like, yesterday. We've got a situation here." _

"What _happened?_" Dean hissed through gritted teeth, taking a turn so sharply he almost lost control of the car.

_"A fucking rain of Grace, that's what happened." _

Dean felt all the blood drain from his face. He resisted the urge to slam on the brakes and went on driving, a desperate edge to his movements.

"What d'you mean, a rain of Grace?"

_"I mean half the preschool class was in contact with it. It seemed diluted, so it didn't burn out their eyes, thank God, but it caused damage to their retinas. Some will require chirurgical intervention. " _

_"_Okay. Shit, okay, Sammy, I'm on my way. I'll be here in ten minutes."

True to his word, he stepped on the gas, paying close to no attention to the road. In his head, a litany of desperate swearing was singing its loop, driving Dean half-crazy with worry. He was worried about the town inhabitants who could be subjected to the Grace at any time. He was worried about Sam, who was alone to deal with that. He was _fucking distressed _at the mere idea of Cas dying alone, watching the Grace slowly leaking from his prison until it was nothing but an empty shell, devoid of thoughts, of fears, just a statue in a garden. A statue sporting the features of a dead angel, and damn if that thought didn't make his chest ache.

Five minutes later, he parked abruptly in front of the motel, where his brother was pacing. Sam wasted no time before jumping in the Impala.

"Sam, what –"

"No time. Drive. There's an abandoned warehouse two miles from here," his brother said in a jerky voice, the one he always had when he was on the verge of a breakdown. Dean wisely kept his mouth shut, started the car and followed his brother directions, and resisted the urge to question him. True to Sam's word, they found themselves in front of a warehouse less than four minutes later. From here, Dean thought it looked more like a heap of junk than an actual building. They got out the car and Sam rushed to the trunk. He took out a can of paint, two brushes, two flashlights, and a gun. Dean frowned.

"Sam, what the fuck is –"

"Summoning. Gabriel," his brother cut him off. He ran off to the warehouse door and Dean hurried behind him.

"You found a ritual?"

"Well, it's not perfect. It's not a Summoning Ritual _per se_, but I think it could work. Not like we have much of a choice." Sam shook the door violently, gasping for breath. When it remained stubbornly closed, Dean pulled Sam by the arm and kicked the rotten wood. He felt the hit reverberate in his bones, but was rewarded with the door banging open with a resonant sound. They stepped forward cautiously, guns in hand. The daylight was barely coming in through the slits between the sheet metal, and Dean had to squint to catch a glimpse of the deserted warehouse. A stale, dusty smell floated in the air. This place had not been entered in a very long time, Dean decided. He lowered his gun.

"What d'you mean, not much of a choice?" His voice echoed disturbingly in the empty space.

"Maggie called me. She was scared. She told me that there was something, a light, in her garden. Something's changed. The Grace isn't leaking in fits and starts anymore. It's constant." He turned on one flashlight and threw the other to Dean, who caught it automatically. Grains of dust were hovering in the rays of the torchlight. Everything seemed so _calm_, so at odds with his inner agitation.

"Oh, shit," he said, closing his eyes for a second. Then, Sam's words registered in his brain. "Wait. _She _called you? Sam, you didn't tell her about us, did you?"

Sam was crouched with his back to Dean and was uncapping the can of paint, but Dean could almost _hear_ him roll his eyes. "Of course not, Dean, I'm not an idiot. I just asked her to give me a call if something unusual happened."

"You just did that because you wanted her to ask you out," Dean grumbled, sticking his hands in his pockets. He felt, once more, useless, as he watched his brother carefully unfold a piece of paper covered in Enochian symbols, studying them with rapt attention. "What the fuck are you doing anyway? We have to hurry," he said, voice tight with restlessness.

Sam froze at his tone and looked at him, brow furrowed. "I'm doing this as fast as I can, Dean. Hell, I know we're in a rush. I'm just taking precautions. One mistake and we'd have to start the whole ritual again. What's your problem?"

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again. He didn't tell Sam that something inside him was shifting. He didn't tell him that, for some reason, he _felt _the slow fall of the angel, felt his pain and his loneliness as if they were his. Now was not the time for dramatic confessions.

Instead, he stopped hovering awkwardly around his brother and stood akimbo, a fierce determination in his voice. "Alright. What can I do?"

Sam glanced at him and gave him a brush. "Trace a circle on the ground."

"That I can do," Dean muttered, plunging the brush into the red paint. A few drops splattered on the back of his left hand, cold and blood-like. He shook the thought away and tackled the task, taking care to trace the circle large and regular. Years of making Demon Traps helped him, handing his muscle memory the reins where his mind was numb and absent. Next to him, Sam had started covering the floor with Enochian sigils, a look of intense concentration on his face. As if sensing his unease, his brother held out his piece of paper, wordlessly offering Dean something to do. It was a reproduction of what the Summoning Circle should look like, and Dean took it with relief. They worked quietly, side by side, the silence only disturbed by the hissing sound of the wind infiltrating through the metal sheets. Finally, Sam stepped backwards and admired their work with a satisfied nod.

"Should be enough."

Dean eyed him in disbelief.

"That's it? No creepy incantation, no holy fire?"

Sam shrugged. "Holy fire would have been handy, but it's not like you can buy that stuff at Walmart. No, I think… I think a prayer should suffice. If I haven't made a mistake on the sigils, they should reverberate it. Like, really loud."

Dean blinked. "That… kinda makes sense, actually."

Sam bit his lip. "Yeah. The only problem is, I don't know this Gabriel personally, of course, but I'm pretty sure he's not gonna be happy about it. I just hope he's not the kind of man… archangel to shoot first, ask questions later, 'cause I have the feeling we're not gonna win if he decides to take it out on us."

The realization of what they were going to do had on Dean the effect of a bucket of cold water. He swallowed and tried to hide his nerves behind a cheeky smile.

"Well, let's find out, then."

Sam's hands were shaking when he lifted the notebook to eye's level, but his voice was even when he began to talk.

"I pray to you, Gabriel, one of the four that liveth forever, to ask for your help and your great leniency. Your brother is perishing within his prison."

Nothing happened. No rumbles of thunder, no flashes of lighting, just a silence that felt heavier as the seconds went by. Sam looked around, as if expecting Gabriel to be behind him. If Dean's dream-experiences with Castiel were anything to go by, it was a fairly plausible supposition. Dean was frozen on the spot, muscles rigid with tension.

"I pray to you, Gabriel, one of the four that liveth forever, to ask for your help and your great leniency. Your brother is perishing within his prison," Sam repeated.

"Come on," Dean muttered, "Come _on_, you son of a bitch. I know angels are dicks, but _really_?"

_Dean_.

Dean startled violently as the voice rang through his skull. He looked around feverishly.

"Cas?"

Sam stopped mid-prayer and looked at him quizzically. "What?"

Dean frowned. "I just thought I heard…" he shook his head. "Never mind. Go on. Let's give this fucking deserter the headache of his life."

Sam didn't seem convinced. He frowned at Dean, but began his prayer again, though the fervor was gone from his voice.

_Dean. _

Dean's head snapped up. "Cas," he said, and Sam's voice trailed off again. "Is that you?"

_Yes._

A wave of relief overcame him, so bright he had to blink several times to be able to focus again.

"Man, it's good to hear you. You've got to hold on, buddy. We're summoning your arch-dick. For the moment, he's kind of playing hard to get, but we'll manage –"

_Dean. _And it was definitely Castiel's voice, but it seemed distorted, pained. Dean closed his eyes. "Yeah?" he asked, a faint tremor to his voice.

_It's too late, Dean. The Seal has broken._

"What? No, man, don't say that, he's going to come."

_I am weak. _

A pause.

_And I would like to see you one last time. _

"That's bullshit." Dean said through gritted teeth. "I said I'm not letting you die."

_Please, Dean. I've long overstepped my welcome on Earth. _

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but found himself lost for words. He licked his lips and nodded. "Okay. Okay, how does it work? I can't exactly fall asleep on the spot."

_I will help you. Just lie down and close your eyes._

Dean looked to where his brother was watching him, eyes wide and sad.

"Sammy, I'm going to take a little nap." He forced a chuckle. "Cas said it's too late, anyway. And Gabriel doesn't seem to be in a rush, so… I'm just gonna… yeah. Don't wake me up."

Sam nodded briefly and looked away while Dean lay down without even wincing as his back protested the cold, hard floor. He closed his eyes.

"Okay, Cas. Let's get this party started."

Dean opened his eyes to a plain gray sky, too bright for his human eyes. He got up quickly, pulling a face when his boots squelched wetly in the mud. He peered around and frowned. The setting was really different from the ones in his dreams. It was just a stretch. No relief, no trees, nothing. Only the overwhelming stench of rot and a monochromatic landscape.

"Dean."

He whipped his head around and caught sight of Cas, barely refraining a curse when he saw him stagger slightly. He was white as a sheet, his skin almost translucent. His bluish lips were trembling, just a little, and it seemed to take a hell of a lot of effort for him to stay standing. He reflexively caught Cas' arm to steady him, and didn't let him go. He stayed here, staring at his hand gripping the naked arm, unable to find words. Under his palm, Cas' skin was lacking human warmth and it made his skin prickle.

"I'm sorry I could not conjure somewhere more…" Cas squinted at the filthy ground. "…welcoming," he finished, nose wrinkled. "I had a hard time reaching you."

Cas closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were bright with tears. Dean watched him wipe his cheek with the back of his hand and hold it in front of his face. He seemed both perplexed and angered when he saw it glistening with salty wetness.

"I'm so sorry, Cas," Dean choked, every cell of his body revolting against the words. They felt like a defeat.

It seemed angels were afraid of dying, too, because he was looking into Castiel's eyes to find reassurance, but he only saw a quiet desperation and a fear so immense he felt his own heart break under the weight of it.

"Don't be sorry, Dean. You're not to blame for this," he said, voice quiet but somehow more forceful than before.

"I-I promised you."

And really, it all came down to that. Dean _had _promised. He should have known better than to think he'd be able to keep it.

"Dean. I _am_ angry," Cas spat, voice dark like charcoal, and it fucking _burnt _Dean. He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed his saliva, his nausea, his fear. "I am, in fact, angrier than I've ever been in my entire life." His voice softened and he looked up at Dean. "But… I'm not angry with you. How could I possibly be? You were here when no one else was. You've been–my friend. You've shared your soul with me and for the first time, I wasn't alone." He quieted and looked down at where his feet were sinking in the mud. "Will you stay with me?" the question was unsure, the tone quiet again.

_No_, Dean wanted to yell. _No, I don't want to see you die_. He blinked several times. "Of course," he said, holding back his _I promise_. He'd never utter those words again. "Anything you want, Cas."

"Just… just hold me while I fall."

Dean hadn't released Cas' arm from his grip, but it didn't feel anywhere near _enough. _He wordlessly drew him closer and threw his arms around the Cas' shoulder. He didn't feel the embarrassment that should have come with such a close proximity. At first, Cas seemed boneless with surprise, but soon he had a handful of Dean's shirt, clinging on for dear life. His body was shaking weakly, as if the simple act of existing was an impediment. Dean heard Cas mutter incoherent, muffled words, and he hesitantly carded his fingers through the dark hair.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm praying," Cas answered softly, his breath brushing Dean's neck.

"To who?"

There was a silence, and Cas' shoulders suddenly started shaking. At first, Dean thought he'd burst into tears. Horrified, he tried to step backwards to take a look at him, but he realized that the strangled noise coming from Cas didn't sound like sobs. He was _laughing_, an ugly, broken laugh, even as tears were spilling on his cheeks.

"I don't–" Cas hiccupped. "I don't even _know_. There's no one to pray to anymore. I'm so tired."

"Woah, easy, man. Don't let go," Dean exclaimed, even as he held Cas tighter. "If you see a bright light, don't follow it," he joked weakly.

And suddenly, everything around them shook. Dean felt _something_ try to pull him back with a force that left him breathless. He stumbled, but didn't let go of Cas.

"Wha–what's happening, Cas? Is that you?"

"N-no, it's… I believe someone is trying to wake you up."

The pull came back, choking the words he was trying to utter. Around them, the wind started blowing, rising up as if preparing a tempest.

"Don't resist, Dean," Cas yelled over the deafening hiss, struggling against him. Dean only clamped his arms securely around his shoulders to stop him from breaking the embrace.

"Why?"

"It could be dangerous!"

"I don't fucking _care_ about dangerous!"

But the pull was quickly becoming painful, and he heard himself cry out, rough and desperate.

"Dean," Cas whispered urgently against his neck, "Dean, I'm sorry, but I have to."

Before Dean could ask what he was talking about, Cas disappeared into thin air. It threw Dean off balance and he fell on his knees, mud splattering on his suit pants, cold and sticky.

"Cas, come back, you son of a bitch!" he shouted at the sky. Then the pain came back and he screwed his eyes shut, _again_, knowing that when he'd open them, the dream would be gone and Cas would be, too.

The first thing Dean did when he slipped back into consciousness was take a swing at Sam's blurry figure looming over him. His fist collided with his brother's cheekbone and he saw him recoil with a pained grunt. Dean stood up and tried throwing himself at Sam, but his legs were weak and he narrowly managed not to fall on his ass. His head was pounding, and his nose was filled with the metallic scent of blood.

"You fucking _asshole_!" he yelled, out of his mind with rage. "I _told you_ not to wake me up!"

Sam seemed distressed, a bruise already forming on his cheek. "Dean…"

"I _told_ him, I _told him _I'd stay," Dean mumbled hysterically, clutching his forehead. It was hot, too hot. The pain was driving him crazy, stirring awful visions and branding them in his brain.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat.

Years of fighting all sorts of creepy things had taught Dean's instincts to kick in no matter how hurt he was. He whipped around, ready to attack and – froze.

There was a man in front of him, hands stuck in his pockets, a smirk playing on his lips. He was short, chestnut-brown haired and, first and foremost, Dean had no idea who he was or what he was doing here.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean barked, trying to locate his gun. The man's smirk deepened and he shrugged.

"Ah, they call me the Trickster, these days. I have to admit that I quite like the name. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think, Dean-o?"

"How d'you know my name?"

If the man heard him, he didn't show it. He spread out his arms in a grandiose gesture. "But this is not the only name I've been saddled with. I'll… only tell you the important one and skip the history lesson, what d'you think? For now, I'm your _Deus Ex Machina,_" The sarcastic smile slipped from his lips and his face turned stony, eyes suddenly glazing with so much power and anger that Dean felt himself take a step backwards. The man held up a hand and Dean's legs froze, stuck in an uncomfortable position. Combined with his headache, the panic made Dean's heart drum against his ribcage. Another quick movement and Sam appeared next to him with a flash, looking slightly nauseous, but not overly surprised.

"My name is Gabriel. Nice to meet you. Now that we're done with the introductions, let's go, shall we?"

At this, two fingers touched Dean's forehead. He opened his mouth to yell, but no sound came out.

The world screeched to a halt, narrowed to a slit, and they were gone.

_TBC_


End file.
